


The Kvur for What Ails You

by IdicSavant



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 02:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3156977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdicSavant/pseuds/IdicSavant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just an airy nothing</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kvur for What Ails You

Some mornings dawned bright with hope and promise. Some mornings it felt as if the universe was your personal plaything, there for you to use, to enjoy, to revel in. Some mornings made you glad, simply, to be alive.

This wasn’t one of them.

Captain James T. Kirk would have sworn it was some inconsiderate SOB’s moan that woke him, except that he was alone in his cabin. Hard on the heels of the moan came a throb, not unlike the impact of a photon torpedo, against the back of his skull.

_So. My moan, then_. He sat up, leaving the lights off, and squinted carefully around his quarters. No bottles, no signs of a party, no mess at all, really. No strange garments belonging to some strange woman who would today require bright smiles and kind, evasive words; just his uniform folded neatly on a chair and his boots perfectly aligned on the deck beneath in a way that said _Spock_ , at precisely the most soothing volume, inside his pounding head.

Jim froze – the act sending a fresh jolt of pain to his head.

The Oinixian embassy. The embassy dinner.

He shook his head, slowly, as memory trickled back under the black pain. No way. There was no way in hell he’d gotten drunk at a diplomatic function, however tedious, however uncritical. No way. That meant he’d been drugged or poisoned.

He dragged his carcass into the sonic scrub, downed some headache medicine, and came out to the flash of his comm console, alerting him to seven urgent messages from Star Fleet regarding the suitability of Oinix’s moon as an ecological research station for the grain _dherj_ , a starchy plant that, with the proper cultivation, could feed millions on otherwise ecologically stingy planets. Evidently the ships with the _dherj_ were already on their way – a gun-jumping that would have angered Jim had he not been so headachy and so accustomed to being just a dog and pony show for bureaucrats.

He responded with terse, noncommittal words to the communiques – there was no problem here, but they didn’t need to hear that from him; they’d already made their decisions –  then went to the commissary when his headache faded enough to let his growling stomach take precedence.

He loaded his tray with coffee and hangover-appropriate foods, took it to a corner, and sat with his back to the wall, scowling the whole while. He had all the symptoms of a  hangover, but he knew he hadn’t gotten drunk, and he felt cheated. Why suffer the reaction when you didn’t get to partake of the fun?

“Well well. And how are we this fine morning?”

McCoy’s voice grated like a kazoo against Jim’s ears. He squinted up at his CMO, his expression a clear warning Bones chose to ignore.

“I don’t mind telling you that was more work than I was prepared for when you told me this was going to be a cakewalk diplomatic dinner.” McCoy sat across from Jim, set down a loaded breakfast tray, and took a sip of his own coffee.

“Would. You. Mind,” Jim said, hearing the dangerous rasp of his own voice, “not swallowing so loudly?”

“Hangover, eh?” McCoy said, his voice mercifully down a notch, but his grin still brutally wide. “Not surprised. You were three or four sheets to the wind. Spock had his hands full, that’s for sure. I can’t think when I’ve enjoyed an evening more.”

Jim set down his empty coffee cup. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I think it was the _kvur_.”

“The – we drank _kvur_?” The crew had been warned against partaking of the stuff – a highly popular Oinixian liqueur, sweet and intoxicating. Its main component was used, in less dilute form, in Oinixian ecstatic religious rites.

McCoy nodded, digging in to his scrambled simuleggs. “Our hosts said there was only a drop of it in the drinks – just enough to flavor, you know how much they love the stuff – but I think there was a lot more than a drop, judging by the way you and a few others reacted. Then again, Oixinians drink this stuff all the time. They have a much higher tolerance than humans. They probably thought it’d be as harmless to us as it is to them, and it’s only natural they’d want to treat their guests to their favorite drink.”

“Harmless …” Jim echoed. He still had no clear recollection of anything but the dinner. “So Spock had to carry me back to the ship on my shield?” Embarrassing, but he’d been in worse straits.

McCoy chuckled. “That’s not exactly the metaphor I’d have used. More the other way around.”

“What?”

The doctor grinned against the rim of his coffee cup. “You were all but sweeping _him_ off _his_ feet.” One shoulder rose and fell. “From what I saw, anyway. I had my hands full by the end of the night – you weren’t the only one who drank the _kvur_. There’ll be a lot of hangovers – or whatever the local equivalent is – this morning.”

“Sweeping him off his …” Jim boggled – the image was both tempting and ludicrous. “McCoy – what are you talking about?”

“Come on, Jim. You were all over him.’” McCoy tried, and failed, to hide his grin. “Last I saw you, you were draped over his shoulder and he was half-carrying you. You had your face buried in his neck and for a second there I thought you were really sick.” McCoy stifled a giggle and Jim stifled the urge to slug him. “Then you planted a big sloppy kiss on his logical green neck, looked at me, and said ‘Hi, Bones!’” Another choked laugh, then, “The look on Spock’s face was worth the price of admission.”

_Oh no_. “And then?”

McCoy shrugged. “How should I know? I was busy. Spock said he’d take care of you.”

_Oh god._ “You just left?” _He left Spock to my mercies in a situation like that?_

“Jim, I had four other crewmen to take care of, to get back to the ship before they did something diplomatically irreparable. It’s not as if I don’t trust Spock to handle you, whatever state you’re in.” McCoy peered at him. “Why? What happened after I left?”

“I don’t know!”

“You don’t _know_?”

“I don’t remember,” Jim snarled, trying to keep his voice down while his frustration – and his headache – boiled over. “I remember the embassy dinner. Talking with Ambassador Xers and her … mates. Walking outside. The rest is a blur. Less. What?”

Bones was staring at him, narrow-eyed. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t remember? Or is it that you don’t want to?”

“Oh, I want to. Why wouldn’t I want to?”

“I don’t know, Jim. It’s possible the _kvur_ caused you to behave in a way you otherwise would never have behaved.”

_Obviously_. “But?” Jim prompted.

“But it’s also possible, given what I know of the properties of _kvur_ and its effect on humans, that the drug simply removed any internal barriers between your conscious desires and your unconscious ones.”

“A few good belts of Saurian brandy will do that,” Jim snapped. “But I’ve never done anything I was afraid to remember after that.”

“K _vur_ is a considerably more potent inhibition-remover than Saurian brandy.”

“For god’s sake, Bones – what did I do?”

McCoy just looked at him. For far too long. “Ask Spock. At this point, it’s between you two. Then, if either of you really needs me to be involved, I’ll talk to you, officially or unofficially. Whatever you prefer.”

“Bones—” Jim was getting angry, and alarmed. What had he done?

McCoy held up a hand. “Talk to Spock. I’m surprised you haven’t already.”

“I haven’t seen him yet this morning.”

McCoy’s brows shot up. “You – ” He caught himself, visibly. “Oh. That would explain why you two haven’t talked yet today. Well … forget I said anything then.”

Completely bewildered, Jim snarled, “ _Bones_ —”

“Jim.” A hand went up, and McCoy’s face went stern, from friend to chief medical officer in a split second. “I’ve told you what I know. I’ve told you what I saw. I guarantee you don’t want to know what I _think_. Talk to Spock for the rest of the story.” He got up. “In any case, I’d better check on the other crewmen who were affected to see if they have memory loss as well.”

Jim hardly noticed McCoy’s leaving, and abandoned his breakfast with the same lack of concern.

~*~*~

He found his first officer in his quarters. Spock said “Come” immediately but when Jim walked in he was rising from the floor, wearing his loose black meditation robe. Jim stopped in the doorway.

“I don’t want to disturb you—”

Spock shook his head. “You are not. I was finished with my meditation.” He waited as Jim inched in, letting the door close behind him.

“Spock.” Already he felt as if he should apologize. _Maybe some part of you does remember what you did._ But if that subconscious part was moving him to apologize, it was no wonder he’d blocked out the memory.

“Captain.” Spock waited, calm, expectant, his own calm itself calming Jim. _How bad can it be if Spock’s not mad at me?_

“Spock – I … it must have been the _kvur_. I don’t have any clear memory of what happened after I left the ballroom last night.”

Both brows rose. “I’m not surprised, given what I know of _kvur_.”

“Dr McCoy said other crew members were affected too. He said the substance reduces … inhibitions.”

“Indeed.”

Jim was unable to read Spock’s tone. The single word had sounded … satisfied, he would have said, although that seemed an odd …

“He wouldn’t tell me what – if anything – I did wrong, though he said I was acting … foolish.”

Spock blinked. “In my opinion, you did nothing wrong, captain.”

Jim stilled, taking a deep breath. It was a hell of a load off his mind to hear Spock say that. Relying as he did on Spock’s knowledge, courtesy, and honor – not to mention honesty – he knew that if Spock said he’d done nothing wrong, he’d done nothing wrong.

“That’s a relief,” he said. “But why was Bones so mysterious? Why did he insist I talk to you, if I didn’t do anything?”

“Captain. You did nothing _wrong_. However, it would be quite incorrect to say you did nothing.”

“Wh…”

“Perhaps you should sit down,” Spock said, still calm – infuriatingly calm, Jim thought, taking an inadvertent step toward his first officer.

“Spock, for God’s sake, just tell me. What did I do?”

“You … I believe the colloquial phrase is ‘made a pass’.”

Jim blinked. Flushed. So it was true. That his trust and affection for Spock had taken a deeply sexual turn was no real surprise, but Jim had long since concluded he had no business horrifying his proper Vulcan friend with any expression of his desires. He was a grown man; he knew very well one couldn’t always have what one wanted. Even if one wanted it so much it sometimes hurt. So much it seemed it would break his heart not to say it. Because saying it was likely to ruin the best team in Star Fleet.

 “Oh, god. Spock.” Hot with embarrassment, he reached out, suppliant. It certainly explained his tidily piled clothes – but when had he taken them off, and in what circumstances?

“Spock – I – I’m so sorry … I didn’t mean …” That – the visceral wrongness of it – stopped him, and he groped for more accurate words. “I … that is … damn it.” He stopped, snapping his mouth shut, and tried to regroup. He had to find a way to apologize for what he’d _done_ without making it sound as if his feelings were shameful or wrong. He might restrain his desires and curb his tongue, but he’d be damned if he’d outright lie about his feelings.

Spock closed his eyes. Still calm. Far too calm, it seemed to Jim, for a man who had just had his captain make an intoxicated (however unwitting) pass at him. A _Vulcan_ who had just had his captain … thinking about it made Jim’s head spin with horror and embarrassment – not that he had made a fool of himself – after all, he was drugged – but that he might have in any way offended his friend. And, honestly, that this debacle might have ruined his chances of soberly and honestly approaching Spock with his feelings. _Assuming you were ever going to find the balls to do so._

Jim finally sat down with a thump, hands extended. Surrendering. Evidently the _kvur_ had found the balls for him. Now he needed to know if Spock was going to hand them to him on a platter.

“Just tell me what I did.”

Spock cocked his head. “As you seem to have conveniently suffered complete amnesia regarding the events of last night, are you absolutely certain you would not prefer to simply remain … in the dark, as it is called?”

Jim shook his head. “No. No, I have to know – no matter how bad, no matter how stupid or offensive I was, I need to know the truth so I can …” _make it up to you, somehow_ died in his throat when he realized, belatedly, that Spock was teasing him. He looked up from his own mortification, at Spock’s calm face. Yes, under the calm – in his dark eyes –  there was indeed a glint of amusement.

Spock was …

Spock was _teasing_ him.

“Spock.” That was surprise. Then, “ _Spock_ ...” That was a warning. A command. Spock did not mistake it.

“If you _must_ have the details—”

Jim let his eyebrows speak for him.

“—very well. You found me in the gardens at the embassy while I was conversing with Dr. Vaxe and President Turas regarding the unstable political situation on their neighboring planet of Gne. You were—” A diplomatic pause – “unusually animated and most insistent that you needed to speak to me privately.”

Jim blinked, concentrating. “That part, I think I remember. It was hot out …”

“It was not, although your condition might have raised your internal temperature to the point that it seemed so to you.” Spock paused. “In any case, you and I walked to the lower level of the gardens, the level of the fountain.”

“I remember the fountain.” He’d remarked on its beauty on their arrival at the embassy.

“When we were alone, you … expressed your …” While groping for polite words, Spock must have caught Jim’s expression. He sighed softly. “You grabbed me. You said – your exact words were ‘I love you so much. Do you realize how much I love you?’” Spock paused, swallowed, and his voice dropped. “Although I believe that I do, you did not give me time to answer the question.”

Not breathing, Jim whispered, “I think it was rhetorical.”

Spock glanced at him, one searing instant, then away, as if he couldn’t talk about this and look at Jim. “As it happened, my verbal response was prevented when you kissed me. With considerable intent and, from my comparatively limited experience, skill.”

_Oh god. Oh god._

“It was at that approximate moment that I realized you were not entirely yourself, and I asked you if you were well. You said yes, then proceeded with a very convincing demonstration of physical health and …” Spock paused, clearing his throat delicately, “…vitality.”

_Oh my god. I sexually assaulted Spock._

“At that point I realized that we – that you were in danger of behavior that might reflect poorly upon Star Fleet in the eyes of the Oinixian rulers,” Spock said, eyes innocently fixed to the bulkhead above Jim’s spinning head. “So I suggested we return to the ship, and you agreed without hesitation.”

“We beamed up,” Jim said, still absolutely blank on the situation other than being gobsmacked, and somewhat annoyed that instead of memories of kissing Spock, all he’d gotten left with was a headache. _I’m not likely to get to do it again, and I can’t even remember it._

“We did. I managed to get you to your cabin without further … exposure.”

“Exposure?” Jim froze. “I wasn’t—” _Please don’t tell me I strolled through the ship naked!_

“Of your behavior. To crewmembers,” Spock elaborated, then cleared his throat again – a warning of danger ahead, Jim realized. “You were … fully clad at that time.”

“At that time …” Jim flushed – embarrassed, and almost more embarrassed to realize that hearing Spock talk this way was turning him on.

“We … you didn’t … we …” Whether fantasy or memory, an image of their naked bodies, pressed close and hot, flashed in his mind, so vivid he gasped. His heart jumped, accelerated, and fire flooded his body. “We made love.”

“I believe that is the usual colloquial terminology.” Spock took a deep, deliberative breath, and Jim, still reeling, saw the first hint of a crack in that irritating calm. “I … have spent a considerable portion of the morning in meditation to enable myself to accept the facts that you were not entirely yourself, that it was quite probable you would regret this incident, and that it was therefore most unlikely ever to be repeated.” He took another careful breath, and understanding washed through Jim like a bracing wind. _Not quite enough meditation, my friend?_ “But you have done nothing you need apologize for. If you wish an apology from me for not … for allowing you to continue, I will give it, and if you feel disciplinary action is in order against me, I will not dispute it. However, the truth is that I regret nothing I did, nothing we did.”

Jim stood abruptly, and Spock all but flinched.

“Spock …” His words came out soft with wonder – _the only soft thing around here at the moment_. “You … took advantage of me?”

A faintly sardonic brow was included in the response. “Any reasonably astute observer would have come inescapably to the opposite conclusion.”

Jim smiled. “But you took advantage of the situation. You could have put me off.”

Spock nodded.

“And you didn’t.” Jim felt his smile broaden, felt his heart open up to welcome this information. “You didn’t.”

Spock shook his head. “I did not.”

“ _Spock_.”

Spock watched his approach almost warily. Face to face, their eyes locked, Jim whispered, “You could have stopped me, and you didn’t.”

It seemed to take Spock a moment to find his voice, or some low portion of it. “I … did not wish to.”

Jim briefly leaned past Spock to touch the door lock on the console. When he straightened again, Spock’s eyes again locked onto his, black, laser-intense.

“Spock …” Jim raised his hands. “I don’t remember any of it. I really wish I did, but I don’t.” He touched Spock’s arms, gently, each finger feeling the hard muscle and natural heat of Spock’s body – a heat that seemed to flare from that small contact, sparking another fiery image in Jim’s mind – if not memory, not fantasy either. Not any more.

“Remind me.”

 

The End


End file.
